


A Quick Chat

by Miracule



Series: 1974 [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Faintly homoerotic and definitely a bit sad, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Which is really the only type of work I produce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: “Look, I’m done for today,” Brian announces, ignoring Roger’s indignant protest that it’ll be two against one if he leaves. John sighs and ducks his head into his hands, and Freddie shoots him a withering look but says nothing. Good riddance, then.





	A Quick Chat

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime during the summer of 1974, after Brian's protracted illness keeps him from recording regularly with the band. It's tough to find a lot of information from that period, but do @ me if there's anything glaring, babes.

“ _Brian_.”

Freddie says his name so sternly that Brian has to imagine that he’s done _something_ wrong. Still, he has no clue what it could be. He’s just been sitting here minding his own business, letting the other three bicker over one of Roger’s more peculiar melodies.

“ _Fred_ ,” he replies, coolly.

He’s defensive despite himself. _Prickly_ , as his mum would call it. But he’s not in the mood for any lectures. He hasn’t the energy for these petty arguments, and frankly, he hasn’t had the energy for a very long time. What little he does have he uses on his own writing. 

“Look alive, dear,” Freddie says with a sigh. “What do you think, anyway?”

“Honestly, Fred, I don’t care.”

Roger snorts. “Well done, mate. Good input. Ta for your help.”

Brian would be annoyed if he weren’t so fucking tired.

He’s _here_ , isn’t he?

Isn’t that enough?

On second thought, he is a bit annoyed.

“Look, I’m done for today,” Brian announces, ignoring Roger’s indignant protest that it’ll be two against one if he leaves. John sighs and ducks his head into his hands, and Freddie shoots him a withering look but says nothing. Good riddance, then.

“Sort it,” he tells them all. “Call me when you need me to work on it.”

 

 

 

He makes it as far as the car park before Freddie catches up with him.

“Brian, hold _on_.”

There’s that fucking tone again. Absurdly parental coming from Freddie.

“ _What_?”

“I want to talk to you!”

“God. Did you draw the short straw, Fred?”

Freddie seems genuinely offended by the insinuation. “Oh, please,” he snaps. “Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”

Brian wavers. All right, maybe that was unfair. 

Fred raises his hands in what appears to be a gesture of contrition. “Look. I don’t wanna fight you. I just wanna talk.”

Brian really doesn’t want to stick around. He’s tired, he’s hungry—the little shake in his hands and the fluttering of his heart remind him that he hasn’t eaten in hours—and to make matters worse, there’s this stupid _fucking_ lump in his throat that he knows will turn into bitter, hopeless tears at the slightest provocation.

He’s a fucking mess.

And it’s only a matter of time.

Brian’s been waiting for months for the other shoe to drop.

It’s played out so many times in his head that he could fill a book with all of the different ways it’s gone down.

_We’ve found somebody else, Bri._

_You need more time, Bri._

_You’ll be better off going back to school, Bri._

_Go home._

“Can we sit, Brian? For a minute.” Freddie’s voice is considerably softer than Brian is expecting. It’s jarring. But the thought of going back into the studio makes him feel ill.

“I wanna go home, Fred,” he pleads. _Don’t make me do this._

“One minute. In the car. Promise.”

“Right.” Brian unlocks his old Vauxhall in a bit of a daze.

Shit, it’s a mess.

Of course it is. He hasn’t been bothered to clean it in weeks. He gathers some school materials—papers, books, and such—from the passenger’s seat and shoves them haphazardly into the back.

Freddie lets himself in, and it briefly reminds Brian of being in Smile, back when little Fred used to ride with him on the way home from gigs. He claimed that it was because he enjoyed Brian’s quiet company, but it was generally because Roger was occupied with a girl or two, and Freddie hated playing second fiddle to girls.

“So,” Freddie begins, slowly, “I just want to say...” He trails off for a moment, and Brian can’t help cutting in.

“I’m sorry I left.”

“No, it’s... quite all right. You had a point, anyway. Choosing your battles and whatnot. I should let him have it.”

Brian makes a face. “Let Roger decide?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Freddie mutters. “I know.”

“Also, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I know.”

“I just—”

“I know,” Freddie says, firmer this time. “Forget it, really. But do tell me, _honestly_. Are you up to this?”

At that, the omnipresent lump in Brian’s throat begins to expand.

“I can do this,” he offers, weakly. “I want to.”

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Freddie says, clearly reading some of the distress in Brian’s voice. “I’m saying... you’re not yourself. Maybe you need more time.”

A heavy silence settles into the space between them. 

Freddie, in a rare gesture, reaches down and squeezes his wrist, and Brian’s not sure if Freddie’s hand is particularly warm or his is just particularly cold.

“If you’re not well, you can have more time.”

Brian takes a quick, shuddering breath. Might as well be honest. Put all his shit cards on the table.

“I’m scared it’s never gonna go away.”

“What’s not?”

Brian doesn’t know how to explain the feeling, but he tries his best. “It’s constant, Fred. It’s fucking constant. The fatigue. I haven’t felt right in months. Everything’s a fucking haze.”

At this point, the tears are there, threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. It’s really not up to him anymore whether he cries or not. 

Freddie, perhaps trying not to notice, looks down at the dashboard. “I’m sorry, darling,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Brian ducks his head into his hands. Just fucking breathe. _Just fucking breathe._ Tears roll down his nose and onto drop onto his lap.

Freddie says nothing; just sits there rubbing small circles into Brian's back. 

“What if it lasts forever, you know?” Brian croaks, catching runaway snot with his sleeve. It's so fucking undignified, but it's been a long time coming. 

Freddie shushes him. “Oh, stop that shit. You’ve just come out of hospital what, two weeks ago? Your second go, no less! You’ve been sick for a long time, darling. It makes sense that you need longer to heal.”

“I keep thinking you’re gonna tell me to pack it in,” Brian mutters, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “Tell me it’s taking too long, you know?”

“God. Please,” Freddie scoffs. “Who else would put up with us? Honestly, Bri, we couldn’t do it without you. It’s special, what you have. Don’t tell them I said that.”

Brian laughs, a phlegmy little sound. He lifts his head and wipes shakily at his face.

“Is that what you’ve been worried about, really?” Freddie asks. “After all that time laid up in hospital, after the American tour, you think we’d do it now? When you’re on the mend?”

“God, I dunno. Maybe it’s not... rational. I dunno, Fred. Nothing feels right.”

Brian finally looks sideways at Freddie, who is quietly chewing on his bottom lip. He nods, and maybe he doesn’t understand Brian, but at least he’s listening.

“All right. But I’ll tell you now, it’s not gonna happen. You’re a right pain in my arse, but I do like you, May.”

Brian manages to take a breath that doesn't hitch in his chest. 

“I guess I like you too.”

Freddie elbows him gently. “There. It’s sorted. But seriously,” he continues, “do you want a lift home? Because I can get Roger—”

“Really? Is that any safer?”

“All right, I get it. But me or John could...”

“Don’t be silly, it’s out of your way.”

Fred offering him a ride has to be one of the strangest things to ever happen to him. It's only ever been the other way around. 

“All right, have it your way. But if you get tired, you will pull over?”

Brian clears this throat, takes a deep breath. “I will pull over.”

“Fine. I’ll let you go.” Freddie lets himself out, but before he even turns back toward the studio, he leans down to poke his nose through the open passenger-side window. “Oh, and Brian?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re taking off tomorrow. Don’t come in. I’ll ring you, okay? We’ll work something out.”

“Right.”

Freddie smiles at him, and maybe Brian’s just reading too much into it now, but it's quite subdued by Freddie's standards. 

“Night.”

“Night, Fred.”

And with that, Freddie pats the roof of his car and takes off toward the studio, a flash of bright colors in drab little car park. He skips, does a girlish little twirl, and blows a kiss back at the car. It’s a little choreography meant to make Brian laugh.

It doesn’t quite work—the most Brian can do is crack a little smile—but it’s the thought that counts.

**Author's Note:**

> Why, yes, I am salty that the film didn't deal more with Brian's physical and mental health issues, but whatEVER.


End file.
